


Drabble Collection

by NightBearrors



Category: Adventure Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 15:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13884033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightBearrors/pseuds/NightBearrors
Summary: Old snippets retrieved from my old tungler account





	1. Chapter 1

You’re not sure exactly what it is you said, even though it just slipped past your teeth, but she’s giving you that look you hate. It’s the one she only ever wears in public, never when you’re alone.

“Don’t be distasteful.”

You hate that word too, “distasteful.” As if she’s never been “distasteful” before. She uses it often enough around you though, and you feel a fire suddenly roar to life in your chest.

She calls you distasteful and pretends as if she doesn’t really know you, as if she never finds your jokes funny and doesn’t laugh at them when you’re alone. As if she doesn’t find you charming and never pulls you down to leave whispers of kisses along your neck while she mumbles in that guttural language that is just so perfect when it comes from her mouth.

You choke down the fire, stomp on it until it’s smoking ash in your throat.

Let her pretend.

You know better.


	2. Chapter 2

It hits you when you’re in the shower, when there’s only you and the soap scum. It’s like a bullet through your gut: sudden, but slow and seeping. You should be used to missing people by now, but you’re not. Not even close.

The lack of physical contact is driving you nuts. It’s like your whole body itches and you can’t relieve it. You have tried, with jam sessions and movie nights and Cloud Kingdom parties. Just her hand on your shoulder would be enough; her fingertips on your skin again.

You had forgotten what it was like to be lonely.


	3. The Last

You don’t know what you’re supposed to say.

You’re too quiet, she cries.

Say something, she screams.

But you have nothing to say anymore. All your words have dried up like raisins in the sun and she’s asking you for water when you have nothing but sand.

You gave in ways that hissed like dying embers and rustled like the leaves in Autumn. She had wanted you and you thought you had given her just that, but you realized one day you would never be able to give her what she wanted.

You loved just close enough to touch, in secret spaces and subtle graces. She used to whisper your name and brush against your hand when she passed. She used to work your lungs and live in your veins.

“I can’t” is all you manage.


	4. Renegade

You’re no good at being with people. That doesn’t stop you from loving her after everything is said and done though. It doesn’t stop her from having that wistful look when she sees you, or the tears she sheds when she confesses she still wants you after the handful of years that have gone by. It doesn’t stop you from kissing her again because you feel the same. It doesn’t stop you from holding her hand or touching her pulse (it’s so quick sometimes, as if it’s being sympathetic and beating for your own unmoving heart). It doesn’t stop all your secrets or the mess you both make in a tangle of sheets.

It doesn’t stop her responsibilities or your melancholy.

It stops you from being with her though. Really being with her.

And so you write her love songs you know she’ll never hear. About how she’s not a goddess but, damn, she sure is close. You write about burying her and running away together.

About how, for her, you would have been a renegade.


	5. Unexpected

You’re cold, shivering in the dampness of the air and your waterlogged socks.

You haven’t seen her in a long time; you had forgotten the purr of her voice and even the color of her eyes, but then they always seem to change. Even as you stand there looking at her, they shift from teal to scarlet.

A board creaks wearily beneath you as you shift your weight and she says nothing as you glance down to your muddy sneakers. Not many people have seen you as unkept as you are now, and in a rush you are embarrassed. You miscalculated. You misjudged. She doesn’t want to see you.

“I- shouldn’t have-” you stilt. “Excuse me.”

You turn and rush down the creaking wooden planks that had led you to her door and even stumble over the last one. You go to trek through the mud again, but then you hear:

“Bonnie-”

And you stop. The silence following is prickly and suffocating, but you turn to look at her anyway. Her face is a look of wary focus, her mouth parted as if she is going to speak again, but she doesn’t for another good moment.

All you can do is watch her.

“…Why don’t you come in? I’ll put on some tea.”

You feel the moment of absolution hit you. It is strong, like a wall collapsing, like your knees buckling.

You nod.

“Okay.”


	6. But You Never Wore It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oldie from tuubullrbggr  
> A response to the episode Sky Witch

It was a Thursday when you found it. You had been picking up the disaster you called your closet; you were moving soon and had decided it a good time to sift through your belongings. You had multiple piles of clothes, designated “keeps,” “pitches,” and everything in between.

You had just discovered an old sports bra and a threadbare sock when there it was; worn, soft, black cotton with a flash of red peeking from the short sleeve, a ridiculous graphic on the front. For a moment you simply stared at it, holding that sock and sports bra. Your thoughts felt incoherent and you’re still not sure what possessed you to pick up the long forgotten shirt and hold it to your nose like you had hundreds of times before.

It was faint but it still smelled like incense and motor oil and just a little like dog. Schwabl, you reminded yourself. The low energy poodle that would always wag his tail when he saw you and lick at your fingers. You wondered how he was as you pressed the fabric to your nose again.

A t-shirt. A stupid t-shirt.

You held it loosely, eyes closed, and remembered the sound her bike made, like thunder. It would shake in your chest the same as her bass’ thrum and you remembered that at one point it had been your favorite feeling. That, and the warmth of her between your arms when she would take you for late night drives.

You held out the fabric, took note of the wrinkles pressed in to it, but couldn’t resist breathing in it’s old smell just one more time. It made your chest ache.

She used to burn incense in her room. It was sweet smelling smoke that clung to everything, but you hadn’t minded much; it had been nice being able to smell her even after you went home. But you couldn’t keep it after all that time; those late night drives were long over and you hadn’t brought Schwabl a biscuit in forever. The shirt was your very last tether to her; you had returned everything else, burned every letter. You hadn’t even remembered it existed, it had been buried so long.

You dropped it on the pile you had mentally dubbed “donations” and turned back to the unkept closet before you let yourself hesitate any longer.

You shouldn’t keep it. It was just a reminder of her and you hadn’t thought about her in a long time; she was off touring Lord knew where which meant you never ran in to her in town. It had been a welcomed reprieve. But as you got ready for bed that night, piles still occupying your floor, you snatched up the shirt and slid it over your bare shoulders before you could stop yourself.

Just one last time, you reasoned, one last night where you permitted yourself to think of her.

As you turned off the light and settled in to your blanket you wondered if at that moment she was playing a show, or maybe she was on the tour bus, or at a bar with the band. Maybe she would be flirting with a woman there or taking her backstage. You screwed your eyes shut at the thought, a prickly anger rising in your throat. It was a stupid thought and none of your business besides, but you wondered about it anyway.

Was someone else smelling those incense? Wrapping their arms around her back? You felt angry at yourself for even caring, but pressed the shirt to your face anyway when you couldn’t stop your own tears.

In that moment you hated her. You hated her voice and it’s charm, her stupid smile that lit up her face. You hated how her ears would get flushed before her cheeks did, and how she would always make you wear that stupid helmet on her bike.

You felt like you were drowning in your own thoughts and you shook with silent sobs as you clung to the old shirt like it could keep you afloat through the night.

“Fuck you, Marceline.” you muttered, angry at her and angry at yourself, but you slept in that stupid thing the next night anyway, and the night after that too.


End file.
